You're Fired: Thirsty Thursday

All week long, I diligently embraced self-control and productivity when you showed up and derailed my entire weekend. You weren’t even in my calendar! Yet you lured me in with your clever hipster cocktails with ingredients I can’t pronounce (how do you say Cynar anyway??) and the potential to finally make out with that intern I’ve been crushing on all summer, and now I’m a useless pile hiding under my desk next to the trash. The TRASH goddammit.

I had plans, you know. So many plans. But you didn’t care. You were like, Hey come with me, let’s have some fun! Sure it’s cool to mix your friends with your co-workers. Don’t worry, nothing embarrassing will happen. Just a few drinks after work, I promise!

That is NOT what happened. That’s not what ever happens. And you know it.

Like last week when I made out with the intern in that smelly bathroom at Bar #5, remember that? Yeah, now he asks me to get him coffee, and I swear he told Steve at the front desk, because he’s been smiling at me suddenly like he knows me so well and we have this secret together. And everyone knows Steve can’t keep a secret to save his life, so I’m sure half the office knows, which probably explains why Bob has been giving me those lingering stares across the conference room table all week.

Remember when you were all like Don’t worry, you won’t remember a thing! It will be like it never happened. No memory, no guilt.

THAT IS NOT A THING.

And even if I didn’t remember, freaking Cheryl from goddamn accounting remembers everything and won’t let me forget any of it. In fact, she thinks we’re like best friends now, and I don’t even remember talking to her. Yet she keeps “strolling by” my desk and asking me if I want to go to lunch or join her for her dumb Barre class after work. Do I look like I exercise??

To make matters worse, there is no amount of makeup that can erase the tequila shots I took last night. Oh shit, I forgot about the tequila shots. And...fuck...what is Steve doing here??

THIRSTY EVIL THURSDAY.

Why do we keep inviting you you to hang out?? You make bad ideas seem SO AWESOME like it’s the best idea I’ve ever had:

Another tequila shot? You definitely need that!

Bump n’ grind with Steve from HR? You go girl, dance like you just don’t care.

Yell at Cheryl who you really can’t stand? Excellent idea, get it out girrrrrl!

Despite all your promises, you leave me here to live with my shitty decisions the next morning. I’m always the one who has to apologize. How come you’re never the one to blame? You get the beasts riled up, unlock our cages, then let the night run wild. And as we’re roaring our terrible roars and gnashing our terrible teeth, you quietly slip out the door making your Irish fucking Exit and leave the rest of us to clean up in the morning.

And why is there always that one guy, the “chosen one” who “never gets a hangover”. Can I get that “get out of hangover free” card next time? I’m not really sure it works anyway, because That Guy always seems to be sweating, wearing at least one article of yesterday’s clothing, and can’t wait to talk about last night’s escapades, even though everyone else is clearly trying to forget.

Meanwhile, I’m left dealing with a WWIII-sized hangover right now, as I kick Steve out of my place, stuff my face with the rest of last night’s pizza I had delivered but never ate before sheepishly entering the office and try to read words on my WHY ARE YOU SO BRIGHT computer screen and avoiding all possible contact with anyone who joined your little shindig last night.

You’re an accident that keeps fucking happening. Like a pothole I keep driving over that the city never gets around to fixing. You’re like tripping into a 3-day black hole of non-productivity, shame and confusion. And we all walk around the next day wondering what happened since we all have our own version of what we think happened but none of us are really sure. Essentially, we’re like a bunch of zombie idiots bumping into each other while we search for food to give us life again.

You know what, Thirsty Thursday? Forget. You. Ugh, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN ASSHOLE SHUT UP MY HEAD HURTS. Forget you all the times, every time, next time and the time after that.

You’re. Fired. Seriously.

Fuck you,Friday Morning

**Please disregard everything mentioned above if note is read Monday-Thursday 9am-5pm. Thank you, and I apologize for any inconvenience this has caused**